Monitor Madness

Posted on March 26, 2021 by Sheila Moss

There are many brilliant people employed in the invention, design, and manufacture and of household devices — unfortunately, none of them are ever involved with anything of mine.

This week it was the computer monitor that died. It didn’t go out in a shower of sparks like the kitchen range, or with the loud banging of a motor gone bad like the refrigerator, not in a puddle of water like the dishwasher, or with a tub full of water and wet clothes like the washer. It died quietly – it just refused to turn on.

I can’t say it was totally unexpected. It has been showing symptoms of distress for a while now. Sometimes the screen turned green, sometimes it turned red. I nearly always had to reboot before it came on in the normal color scheme.

It had cardiac arrest and quit working so many times I’ve lost count. The off button long ago quit functioning. The only way to boot it was to unplug it. Not very technical, but it worked. This seemed to provide enough of a shock to stimulate it back to life again.

Considering the bench charge, the cost of the parts and labor and the fact that it would still be a used piece of equipment, it wasn’t worth fixing. I would be better off just replacing it. Seems a lot of things are that way these days — disposable, cheaper to replace that to repair.

Ironically, what finally killed it was a power surge. We had an electrical outage. My lights were out, the neighbor’s lights were out and even the stoplights down at the corner were out. It must have been a malfunction of some sort at a relay station.

When the lights came back on, my computer monitor didn’t. I plugged and unplugged, booted and rebooted, tried prayer and chicken soup, but no amount of first aid could revive it this time.

“Could you pick up a new monitor for me tomorrow?” I asked my honey. He was going right by Best Buy on his way to an appointment.

“I can’t pick out a monitor for you. I don’t know what you want.”

“You picked out this one,” I reminded him.

That’s different. It was a gift.

Maybe you could gift me again?

“If you want a new monitor, why don’t we just go now?”

So we did.

When we got to the store, there were a dozen monitors. I looked around until a clerk spotted us. I explained the situation. He sympathized and then asked if we had seen the other monitors. “Other monitors?”

There was an entire wall full of nothing but computer monitors, all sizes all brands, all prices. I found one that I liked, a bit larger than my old one, and a bit more expensive, but isn’t everything?

Monitors now are LED HD, whatever that is. “Can your old computer support this?” asked the clerk, who was starting to smell a commission. Here we go, I thought, nothing is compatible with anything else. Planned obsolescence, they call it.

“What kind of plug does it have?” He showed me a blue plug on the new one.

Having recently taken the computer apart to move it, I remembered the blue plug.

“It will probably work,” he said. Thank goodness for blue plugs.

I bought the new monitor and took it home. This is going to be complicated I thought, looking at the installation disk. I attached the blue plug to the computer and turned it on. The monitor lit up, the screen adjusted automatically, and it sprang to life. No new hardware found, no drivers to install, no installation, no headache, no vomiting, no nothing.

So, I’m back in business again. It’s almost like having a new computer.

The next day I received a call. My son’s computer would not boot. We think it was fried by the power surge. It never ends, does it?

Copyright 2011 Sheila Moss

Posted in Humor, Technology | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

The New Shoes

Posted on March 23, 2021 by Sheila Moss

I am having shoe problems again. I love cute shoes but cannot wear high heel shoes. Ladies understand needing dozens of shoes. Men have two pairs and think that is enough. I got rid of anything with a heel, even a low heel. I hated parting with my shoes, but if you can’t wear them, why keep them?

Somehow, I can’t quit buying shoes. It’s like an addiction. I decided to buy some new shoes that were both comfortable and fashionable. Unfortunately, there is no such shoe. You can have one or the other but not both.

Last week I went shopping at the discount mall. As usual, I ended up in a shoe store. What is it with shoes? I convinced myself that I needed a new pair of black shoes for winter although it is almost over. There is always an excuse to shop for shoes.

Of course, what the stores had at this time of the year was not winter shoes, but sandals. I love sandals. All the good winter shoes are gone. What is left on the shelf is a size 9 or a size 4. I’m the world’s most common size — 7.

After trying three stores, I decided they didn’t make shoes in a size 7 any more. The lady at the cash register said they get four pairs of 7 for every style they have. But, four people must be standing in line to scoop them up.

So, I bought a cute pair of gold sandals instead. I needed a pair of gold sandals last summer and didn’t have any. So, here they are now that’s it’s too late. But who knows when I might need them again? And then since I couldn’t find the shoes I liked in black, I bought them in navy instead. That’s two pairs, but who’s counting?

Honey was ready to go home. “Put these shoes in the car. I think there is another shoe store that I didn’t check yet. They may have black.” He headed in one direction and I went the other. I rounded the corner and there it was — a NEW shoe store, only open for three days.

My heart was pounding. I LOVE their shoes! They are casual but dressy, comfortable but cute. And they came in BLACK — black 7. My debit card vibrated in my pocket, or was that my phone?

“Where are you?” honey asked.

“Come quick, I’m buying out the store.”

Have you seen these shoes? They are gym shoes, sort-of. But they are gym shoes gone fashionable. They feel like gym shoes, but they look like real shoes. It’s hard to explain.

I managed to stop looking after selecting only two pairs. Then honey showed up. He started looking at the men’s styles. As long as he was looking, I might as well look some more too. And when you look, you find. Next thing you know, I found a stylish brown pair.

They are really different, really cute, and really, really feel good. They won’t work for dressy occasions, but who dresses up these days anyhow?

Now I have to find a place in the closet to put them. I might have to get rid of some more of my older ones to make room. But who could pass up shoes this cute?

I’ve been thinking, maybe I will go back next weekend. After giving more of my old shoes away, I have more space in the closet now. And I really need a pair of black shoes for winter.

Copyright 2011 Sheila Moss

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The Passenger Pickup Lane

Posted on March 15, 2021 by Sheila Moss

Yesterday I went to purgatory — at least I call it purgatory. Most people call it the airport. .

It used to be fun to go to the airport and pick someone up and watch the planes come in. But now you can’t go where the planes are. You have to wait for arriving passengers at the security gates and hope they didn’t take the escalator that goes down to luggage pickup instead of coming back to the gates.
 
You might as well just pick someone up outside of the airport and be done with it. Everyone seems to have the same idea, though. Traffic circling the airport is like rush hour downtown.  

Our airport has a front way in and a back way in. We usually go the back way since it is closer to home and there is not as much traffic. This time we had to take the front way as we were coming from downtown. The road is wide and the traffic heavy as we enter purgatory.
 
There is a lane for everything, long-term parking, short-term parking, departures, arrivals, rental cars, taxis, busses, commuter vans, pickup lanes, drop-off lanes and lanes of no return. The lane we need to be in is always on the opposite side of the lane we are in. You need to really be careful in purgatory or you could find yourself on the fast road to a very bad place.  

The airport likes parkers who pay to park and they make it easy for them to get to the short-term parking lot. They do not like non-paying non-parkers who add to the congestion but not to the budget. At least it seems that way as we weave our way in and out of the confusing maze of traffic. There are signs, plenty of signs, even signs telling you to watch for other signs. 

How do you pick someone up outside the door when you are not allowed to park? We find a few slots by the door so we slide into one of those along with all the other people trying to pick up an arriver. “Ten minute parking” says the sign. “Leave your trunk open.” “No unattended vehicles,” “Cross your legs and wait.” Of course, Honey decides he needs to go inside to the bathroom and leaves me all alone to deal with purgatory.
 
When he comes back, the security guard tells us “Your time has run out.” So, we leave our empty spot for the other lost souls. Now in a holding pattern, we circle the airport, and circle, and circle like we are following a labyrinth.  

Finally, we notice a sign that says “cell phone lot.” In the back of my over-heated mind, I remember someone (probably a security guard) once told me that you could wait there for a flight to arrive. I don’t know why they don’t call it “short-term waiting lot”. So, we pull in and read more signs about not leaving your vehicle unattended while we wait for the much-lamented plane to arrive.  

An electronic sign flashes with arrival times for the incoming flights. There must be airplanes somewhere, even if we can’t see them. Our flight is arriving 15 minutes early. Good, we won’t have to wait much longer. Our person can call us when she gets here and we can circle around and pick her up.
 
Finally, our flight comes up and it’s back to timed parking where we are already on bad terms with security, but this time we actually find our passenger and make a clean getaway before time runs out and the security guard nabs us. 

Now if we can only find our way out of purgatory without going into a long-term parking lot or taking a shuttle. It is hard to avoid the front way as all roads lead to town. Finally, we find the narrow road for the back exit. The signs direct us to go north or south — but it’s an east/west road! Fortunately, we guessed right.  

My airport atonement is done for a while. I just hope I can make it home before my time runs out for good.

Copyright 2011 Sheila Moss

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Only a Matter of Time

Posted on March 10, 2021 by Sheila Moss


Are you on time? What time is it? Did you make it in time or has time run out? Are you out of time? Do you need more time? Are you saving time? Is it only a only a matter of time?

This weekend is the big focus on time as it is “Remember to reset the clock.” weekend. We are supposed to spring forward in March, losing an hour until we fall back in November.

I really hate all this time resetting stuff. My body doesn’t work right. My bio-rhythms are not synchronized. I stagger around half asleep for weeks because they took an hour away. And when I’ve finally adjusted, they change the time again.

Sure, more daylight in the evening will be nice, but moving daylight around isn’t actually saving anything. I go to bed at the same time, but my body thinks it is an hour earlier. So, I stay up later and then, can you believe it, I’m sleepy when I get up the next morning.

This stupidity needs to stop. There ought to be a law. Oh, wait, there is a law — except the law is that we all participate in this foolishness. Is there anyone anywhere who actually likes this daylight saving time stuff? If there is, we need to find that person and stomp him.

The entire thing doesn’t make a lot of sense. Everyone explains why in a different way. One person says the time change is from the olden days when we were an agrarian culture and needed more daylight time to work the farm.

Oh, please! Who farms anymore — maybe two percent of the population? Farms are giant corporate enterprises farming with machinery and turning out food by the truckloads. They really don’t need extra daylight to hitch up Old Nellie to the plow.

Others say it started because of the war. What war? World War II? The story goes that we saved energy and power for the war effort by messing with the time so that we have more daylight during the hours people are awake.

Actually, that makes more sense to me than the Farmer in the Dell story. Except, the war is over, people! It’s been over since before most of the population was even born. We’ve had, oh, about four or five wars since that one. Or didn’t they notice? Are we still fighting a war that ended years ago by setting our clocks forward and backwards?

I can’t stand it!

And some idiot decided it would be a good idea to make the nonsense a LAW? A law, people! We all have to do it because it’s the law. Except Arizona. Why not Arizona? Oh, who knows? Who cares? But if I adjust my entire life twice a year, Arizona should too.

All the people who hate daylight saving time used to threaten to move to Arizona and refuse to participate anymore. But that was before they found out about the dust storms. Maybe Arizona already had all the aggravation they could stand without adding time changes.

As you can see, the mere thought of a time change is making me grouchy already. Bah, humbug, people. Get out of my face. I have to check the smoke alarm. They not only take an hour they tell us check the batteries in the smoke alarm when the time changes.

They say that someday things may change but for right now we just have to live with it. But, I say NO! Return the clocks to the people. Forward this to every legislator you know and demand that politicians leave time alone!

But, would you mind if I make a quick trip and pick up some new batteries for the smoke alarm first?

Copyright 2011-2021 Sheila Moss
Edited

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Cooking Up a New Stove

Posted on March 7, 2021 by Sheila Moss


My daughter called me at work: “I think you are getting that new stove for the kitchen. I turned on a burner and sparks shot halfway across the room. It was like the Fourth of July.”

“Did it burn the new floor?” I asked. After I found out the new floor was not damaged, I remembered to ask about her. A new kitchen range has been on my wish list for a long while, but I had not intended to buy one today.

“Do the other burners still work?” I asked.

“I don’t think so; I turned it off but the red light is still on and I hear a clicking noise. I’m not going to touch that thing.”

“Can you unplug it?”

“I’m afraid to pull it out from the wall. Besides, I have to go to the dentist in an hour.”

“I considered whether to call 911 or let the house burn down.”

“Maybe you could turn off the switch at the electric box?” I asked.

“That’s a good idea,” my daughter agreed.

That took care of the immediate problem. And since I’ll be shopping for a new stove tonight, I won’t need to cook anyhow.

The stove is 25 years old. It doesn’t match my newer appliances, which have replaced the old ones that are passing away one by one: dishwasher, refrigerator, washer, stove, falling like dominos.

When I arrived home that night, I decided the stove was definitely not worth fixing. It had cooperated nicely with my desire for a new stove, becoming a “need” instead of a “want.”

Rows and rows of shiny stainless steel ranges greeted me at the appliance store. I found out they are called ranges – not stoves. I really need to get out more. Ranges have changed a lot since I shopped for one. They no longer have burners, they have electric cook tops.

We went down the row, checking out the features on each one. What’s a convection oven? What kind of self-cleaning oven? Do I really need an automatic timer? Finally, I found it, the range of my dreams. It had no knobs just a touch pad like a microwave.

The salesman reduced this charge and lowered that charge as an incentive to convince me to buy. He didn’t know my old stove was spouting fireworks like a volcano. “Free delivery,” he promised, and “We will haul off the old clinker.”

The new range arrived three days later. There was some sort of mix-up on the delivery date, but I like to eat out anyhow.

It looked beautiful in my kitchen in the spot vacated by the range from hell’s kitchen.

Then fear gripped me. What have I done? How do I run this thing? “It has a dashboard like a rocket ship,” observed my daughter. It beeped at me and dared me to punch its lights out.

I’ll read the manual, I decided. The manual will tell me how to control it. “Estufa electrica,” said the manual. Whoops, Spanish, wrong section.

I turned it over to the English Guide for Idiots. “Do not touch surface units when hot,” “Do not use as cutting board.” “Do not place plastic items on cook top.” It had more about preventing damage than it did about cooking.

Finally, I found the part about how to turn it on and off and how to set the cooking temperature on the oven. I also found out the new stove is bi-lingual. It speaks both fahrenheit and centigrade. I only speak fahrenheit myself.

Surely if I can use an iPhone, I can run this thing, I thought. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to use a cooking stove.

If you read in the newspaper about a woman in Tennessee who was the first to put an electric range into orbit, that will be me. To tell the truth, I was only trying to cook supper.

Copyright 2011 Sheila Moss


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Clothes Gone Crazy

Posted on March 4, 2021 by Sheila Moss


The floor of my closet is littered with shoes. Not the shoes I wear, those are on the shoe rack, but other shoes. I’m embarrassed to say how many, but let’s just say a lot. Why do I have so many shoes? I looked to make sure, but I still only have two feet.

I decided this spring that I would try to wear every outfit in my closet, one each day. Most of them didn’t fit any more. Some of the ones that did fit, I didn’t like any more. So what did I do? What any red-blooded woman would do — bought more.

My closet is not very large. It is double-racked for tops. I have favorites that I wear all the time, and others that I seldom or never wear, but keep in case I one day decide that I would look smashing in an orange Bohemian top with fringe or that a red Mickey Mouse jacket flatters me.

We spend way too much time on clothes — shopping for clothes, deciding what to wear, washing clothes, drying clothes, storing clothes, talking about clothes, and getting rid of clothes so we can buy more clothes. The other day I went shopping and it took all afternoon just to pick out a few things.

There is a whole industry for clothes, not only for making and marketing them, but for fashion. What is in style? Are our hems too short or too long? Are the toes of our shoes too pointy? What we wear has nothing to do with whether clothes are worn out, or whether we had too many desserts and they don’t fit any more. We must keep up with the style. So, we throw away perfectly good clothes and get new ones to be in fashion.

In the olden days cloth was precious and clothes difficult to make. Pioneer women probably had only a few dresses and didn’t need a closet. They could hang the extra dress behind the door, if they had a door, and keep one good dress to wear to Sunday meetings. When a garment became too worn to wear any more, they cut it up into squares and made a quilt out of it.

Now we have walk-in closets because we have so many clothes. We have summer clothes and winter clothes. I store the things that are out of season in the attic because I don’t have room in my closet. I try to donate things to charity that I’m sure will never fit again in spite of my prayers and vows to diet. Still, I have too many clothes.

I wonder what clothes will be like in the future. Will we never wear the same thing twice? Will clothes be made out of paper and disposable after use like the paper gowns used at the doctor’s office? If dresses were paper, we wouldn’t have to worry about being in style as we would always have on the newest fashion.

Maybe clothes will be plastic like a grocery bag and thrown in the trash after being used once. We could use our closets for storage space and use old dresses to line our trash cans. We could keep a box of pop-up dresses on the dresser.

Or maybe we will go in the other direction and wear silver jump-suits like in science fiction movies. Everyone will look and dress the same in silver jumpsuits that last forever and never get dirty. That’s science fiction all right. Someone would sew a ruffle on one and we would be off again.

It’s probably just as well. I don’t think I would look very good in a silver jump- suit anyhow. And what in the world would you do if your zipper broke and you had nothing else to wear?

Copyright 2011 Sheila Moss

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The Pizza Laureate

Posted on February 28, 2021 by Sheila Moss

I won a free pizza from Papa John’s Million Pizza Giveaway. I always knew I was one in a million and this proves it. I received an email yesterday with the big news. “Your name was randomly selected as one of this week’s 60,000 Papa Rewards members to receive a free large one-topping pizza.”

There are 60,000 winners? I thought they said a million pizzas? Oh well, why argue when it’s free. My odds of winning were slightly better than they are for some things, say, for instance, a Pulitzer, which has only 21 winners.

I didn’t discovery an earth-shaking story hiding in plain sight, like the Pulitzer Prize winners who receive journalism’s biggest award. I also didn’t get the $10,000 that comes along with it. So, I suppose I will not be listed on their website. Don’t look for me there.

Winning a pizza isn’t like winning the Nobel Prize either, which has only five winners. The Nobel Prize for literature is given for a writer’s life work. Guess my pizza will not be presented by the King of Sweden, but I can still call myself a Pizza Laureate. I will not be receiving a gold medal or 10,000,000 SEK, which is Swedish for $1.45 million, a nice chunk of change in any language.

Winning a pizza isn’t like winning an Oscar. There is no glitz and glamour on pizza night, no limousean, no gold statuette, no prestige and honor involved.  It’s probably just as well. I wouldn’t have anything to wear to the Academy Awards anyhow.

Winning a pizza isn’t like winning an Emmy from the Academy of TV Arts & Sciences, no gold statuette of a winged woman, only cheese and tomato sauce on a golden crust. One good thing, though, I won’t have to lock up my pizza to keep it from being stolen.

A pizza isn’t like the Peabody Award, the oldest prize in electronic media. Pizza isn’t a rare award like the Peabody. Andy Rooney was a writer and he won several Peabody Awards. I don’t know if he ever won a pizza, but I’ll bet he didn’t.

There are not many awards for humor writers. The Thurber Prize for American Humor is the best known. They have only three winners, so my odds are pretty low. Besides that, they only give prizes for books or e-books and I write columns. Guess it’s a good thing I won a pizza.

Winning a pizza is nothing like winning a crystal bullet from the CMA Country Music Association for writing a country music hit. I won’t be going to Nashville to pick up my pizza.  I won’t be singing my own original song at the Opry. I will order my pizza online and have it delivered.

“Your Papa Rewards account has been credited with 20 Papa Rewards Points, so you can now redeem these points for your free pizza offer,” said the email. No money, no fame, no glory, no reporters calling or knocking on my door. It’s one pizza out of a million.

I’m beginning to wonder if they gave a free pizza to everyone in their rewards program. I went to the Papa John’s website and found out that anyone who joins the Rewards Program during their promotion can have a free pizza. ANYONE can be one in a million?

Don’t worry, I’m not going to refuse to accept my pizza like some actors and writers have done with their prestigious awards. I will accept. It isn’t gold, it isn’t priceless — it’s probably worth about $10 at the most. However, I’m planning my acceptance speech right now. “I’d like to thank my daughter, my grandson, and my pizzeria for making this award possible.”

There is one thing that I can do with a pizza that all the other big winners can’t do with their award.

I can eat it.

Copyright 2011 Sheila Moss

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The Fungus Among Us

Posted on February 24, 2021 by Sheila Moss

It seems that human-kind is afflicted with a variety of minor ailments, pimples, warts, moles, sties, fever blisters, athlete’s foot and toenail fungus, to name a few. I seem to be destined to have them all at one time or another. I could be president of the trivial ailment of the month club.

This month’s featured ailment, for those who choose to participate, is toenail fungus.

I thought only mushrooms were fungus, but apparently there are many different kinds of them, some good, some bad and some that depend on opinion for a descriptive adjective.

Yeast is a fungus and useful for bread making or for fermenting wine and beer. Fungus is also what breaks down organic material and causes decay, replenishing the nutrients in the soil.

Mold is a fungus. It may spoil the food in the fridge or grow in the bathroom shower. Mole spores are allergens that can make us sick when we breathe them, but mold is also the source of penicillin that fights infectious disease.

Just as I thought, however, one of the most common funguses is indeed the mushroom, which like other funguses can also be good or bad. Mushrooms can be a source of food, but some varieties are deadly poisonous.

Mushrooms were thought to be magic in days of yore, and were associated with fairies and witches and toads. Science now knows that their “magic” probably came from the hallucinogenic properties of some varieties.

Anyhow, to get back to the subject at hand, or at foot in this case, I have a pesky toenail fungus on one of my toes. These funguses are especially difficult to treat because they lurk underneath the toenail and are hard to reach with medications.

I tried simply ignoring it and waiting until it cured itself. I covered my toenail with nail polish and went about my business until I discovered my nail had become thick, ugly, and difficult to trim. Fungus, unlike warts, does not tend to cure itself in time, only to become worse.

I had nightmares of mushrooms sprouting from the toes of my shoes and fairies visiting me to dance in circles around my feet. Clearly, it was time for something to be done about the nasty toenail fungus.

Actually, fungus can be treated by doctors with systematic fungicides, which are also said to sometimes cause liver damage. Since I really like having all of my internal organs functioning and don’t actually believe much in fairies or witches, I decided to try a home remedy.

Nearly all the minor ailments are so common that many folk remedies exist. In my case, the most common cure I could find was soaking the toe in vinegar or Listerine. Not too difficult until you realize it is for 20 minutes, twice a day for two months. I decided on the vinegar cure since I didn’t have any Listerine.

I can now be found nightly dangling my toes in a plastic container of vinegar while I’m at the computer. The vinegar is said to create an acid environment in which it is impossible for fungus to grow. I’m not sure if it is working or not, but I’m beginning to smell a whole lot like a pickle.

As far as I know, no one ever died of toenail fungus, unless it was from humiliation. But it is very resistant to remedies. Perhaps the toenail fungus has evolved like other diseases that eventually become immune to cures. Or, perhaps the vinegar treatment is just a folk tale and doesn’t actually work at all.

I have another idea. Maybe I should try Listerine.

Copyright 2010 Sheila Moss



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Snowed In

Posted on February 21, 2021 by Sheila Moss



The weather people promised us 5 to 6 inches of snow. It wasn’t as if we didn’t know. But we so seldom get snow that we don’t really believe until we see it falling from the sky. Along with snow, there was sleet and ice.

I had plenty of bread, milk and toilet paper – the staples of southerners when snow is predicted – so I wasn’t really too worried. Also, the storm was coming on a holiday when many things would be closed. How convenient.

Day 1 – By spending a lot of time looking out the window at the ice-covered trees and sagging power lines, and watching the weather news on TV, we got by. At least we still had electricity, which was better than the thousands who did not.

Thank goodness, I had remembered to buy cat food. Nothing is worse than being cooped up with a couple of hungry, yowling cats.

Day 2 – The walls were starting to close in, but the weather showed no mercy. We were able to stay in touch with the outside world on the computer. A State of Emergency was declared by the Governor. Boy, this house is really small when you can’t go out. It feels like one of those tiny minimal houses that you read about on the internet.

I had an appointment to get a vaccine, but is it worth wrecking your car and getting injured? Not to worry, they closed due to the weather. We continued to squeeze past each other in the shrinking house. The pipes were not frozen, so we had hot water. We still had heat too. The only thing we didn’t have was elbow room. I was starting to feel a little claustrophobic.

Day 3 – Will this stuff never melt? The schools gave up and closed for the rest of the week as the busses couldn’t get through to pick the kids up. By now I felt like Alice in Wonderland, too large for the house with my head, arms and legs sticking out windows. I think I am going insane, I thought, as I stumbled over the dog and knocked a cat off the table.

A loud boom shook the house. I thought the roof had caved in, but checking inside and outside, we couldn’t find anything wrong. We found out later it was an ice quake caused when underground water freezes creating pressure in the earth. Who ever heard of such a thing?

Day 4 – Some of the ice was melting a little. The sunshine was warm at the end of the tunnel. I wanted to take my car to the gas station when the roads were dry enough to drive on. I hoped my car would start after sitting idle in the cold for four days.

“Do you want to eat out?” asked honey, who went out in the snow for a chiropractor appointment even though I told him not to go. Boy, would I love to eat out. Had it only been four days? It seemed like an eternity.

“No,” I said, remembering the icy roads, “But we do need some groceries.” I gave him the list and talked him into going alone to restock our food supplies. Apparently everyone else had the same idea as shelves were picked bare, he said. “But I think I got everything.”

“Did you get potatoes?” I had called him after he left as I realized I forgot to put them on the list.

“No, do you want me to go back?” Not worth braving the snow again for one item.

By this time, the house was morphing back to its normal size. We had survived the storm and life was good. That is, it was good until I turned on the TV. Another snow and ice storm is on the way and we may have to do it all over again.

It isn’t as if we don’t know it’s coming. But we so seldom get snow that we don’t really believe until we see it falling from the sky.

Copyright 2015-2021 Sheila Moss

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Could That Be Snow?

Posted on February 18, 2021 by Sheila Moss

“Severe weather warning” barked the TV. Beep, beep, beep, the weather warning rolled across the bottom of the screen, four to six inches of snow. I ignored it. That’s what they said last time. Nothing happened – nada. In the South, we have grown complacent. Oh, sure, the forecast is right once in a while, but just as often it is wrong.

When morning came this time, there were three inches not four. They were wrong, but not wrong enough. Three inches might as well be six. We don’t know how to deal with snow in the South. Snow is a northern thing. This should be happening in Boston, New York, or Buffalo, not here.

For a moment it was almost beautiful as I looked out the window at the whiteness, a clean blanket covering the dead grass. The trees were alive again, covered with spring snow blossoms. Then I remembered, the streets are covered too.

Snow crunching under the tires, the rear end of the car sliding around, crazy people trying to drive, spinning their wheels in the snow, going too fast on slick roads. No, I can’t deal with it. I’m staying home. Southerners have no experience driving in snow. It isn’t worth getting killed over.

My daughter calls, her kids have snow saucers and are sledding on the perfect hill near their house. This afternoon they plan to build a snow woman – equal rights for snow people and all that, I suppose.

Dogs love it too. The dog frisks around, up and down like a worm in the drifts with whiskers full of fluffy stuff. Her feet are covered with snow, frozen to her fur like ice boots. She makes muddy track all over the kitchen floor then wriggles and squirms while I dry her paws. Silly dog needs snow boots.

My feet will not touch it, I think, except to make a picture, that is. I would like to have a picture. I’ll use my cell phone, and I can email it to my computer. I make the ultimate sacrifice and go outside, careful not to slip. This stuff is impossible to walk in without sliding. I must be crazy. What if I fall and break a leg?

Back inside I email my picture. It didn’t work. It’s upside down no matter how I try to fix it. Oh, rats! So, I do it all over again. This time I’m careful about holding the camera phone right side up.

Pictures are great. I can enjoy the snow while staying warm inside. Hot chocolate, a fire in the fireplace, snow isn’t so bad after all as long as it is outside and I’m inside.

I got enough of the cold stuff when I lived in Chicago. One winter it snowed in the fall and I didn’t see the ground again until spring. But now I live the warm South were snow doesn’t happen, or at least we like to pretend it doesn’t.

The weather report comes on TV. The cold front has moved northeast. worst snow they’ve seen in years. Snow belongs in the North. By tomorrow the snow will be melted here. No need to shovel. We just wait until it melts and things get back to normal.

Copyright 2011 Sheila Moss


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